Autopsy, page 5
She explains that Cliff Sallow, the manager, said the unit was being renovated when Gwen asked about a short-term rental. She was in a desperate hurry, her needs simple. She wanted a place that was private and safe. She wanted it instantly. The rental couldn’t be in her name, and no one else was allowed access under any circumstances unless it was a life-and-death emergency. Gwen took the townhome as is, and Fruge is an impressive information gatherer.
“I guess she must make a really good living because she didn’t seem concerned about money,” she says. “Or the fact there’s almost nothing inside, not even a bed. She has one of those inflatable ones. You’ll see it when you get there.”
“How much is her rent?” I pull on a pair of nitrile exam gloves.
“I should have asked that,” Fruge says with a flash of impatience. “But I’ll find out.”
“And did she give a reason for the urgency beyond the new job she was starting?”
“Not that I was told,” she replies as the front door opens wide, wind and rain gusting in.
Chapter 6
“I’m glad you made it,” August Ryan says to me, and he’s short and slight, with braces on his teeth, his hair curly and gray.
He doesn’t come across as intimidating in the least, and that works well for him, I have no doubt. People tend to underestimate him, to let their guards down, assuming he’s sensitive, even gentle. It’s rather much the antithesis of how they react when Marino shows up.
“Just so you’re aware, Doctor Scarpetta, nobody’s been in here besides Fruge, me, and the crime scene guys who did the walk-through,” August says.
He steps on a sticky mat, suited up in white Tyvek from head to toe. I figure this is as good a time as any to mention my new forensic operations specialist.
“Pete Marino is with me and waiting in the truck,” I let them know, as if it’s a given. “He’s former Richmond P.D., and also worked with numerous other law enforcement agencies and my various offices over the years. Now he’s a private consultant who’s assisting my office, and I’ve asked him to take a look.”
“The fewer people in here the better,” August says, and what he really means is, hell no, he doesn’t want Marino around.
“He lives two doors down and has been inside this townhome before.” I cover my phone with a protective film. “I’ll let him elaborate on what he knows about problems Gwen Hainey allegedly was having with a former boyfriend before she moved here from Boston last month.”
“Well, that sounds important,” August replies, his interest kicking up.
“What kind of problems?” Fruge wants to know. “Because an estranged boyfriend might make sense. Obviously, she turned off the alarm and opened the door to whoever it was. It was locked when I got here, the alarm off. Everything was locked except for the door near the kitchen that leads into the garage.”
“I’m waiting for a callback from the alarm company,” August adds. “To get the history, see when she turned it on and off last.”
“Marino has information I think you’ll find helpful, and he can fill you in himself.” I won’t take no for an answer.
“If that’s what you want, Chief.” August isn’t happy about it. “We’ve set up a pup tent, and he can suit up like the rest of us. But I want you to walk through first, see what you notice.”
“I gotta call the manager back and find out how much she was paying in rent.” Fruge steps outside, shutting the door behind her.
“What about the security gate’s video recordings?” I ask August.
“That’s a good question.” He gets quieter, more serious.
“I assume you’ve reviewed them?”
“We got an unusual situation here,” he says. “There’s an hour of Friday night’s video that has no images, only audio. In other words, the cameras were covered for an interval.”
The microphones picked up the sound although it’s muted, and August describes seeing something being slipped over one camera, then the other.
“As the video is blacked out, you can hear a quiet crinkly noise, maybe some type of plastic bag,” he explains.
This occurred at 5:13 p.m. Two minutes later the code 1988 was entered to open the entrance gate. The year Gwen Hainey was born, and a stupid code for her to pick, August says.
“I’ve got to admit I’m wondering if it’s possible she orchestrated all this herself.” He grabs a pair of gloves out of a box as we continue suiting up inside the townhome’s entryway.
“Gwen covered the cameras, then open and shut the gates? How would that make any sense?” White Tyvek makes a rustling sound as I pull the hooded jumpsuit over my boots and clothing.
“It wouldn’t unless she’s staged something elaborate because she wanted to disappear,” he suggests. “And she’s trying to make it look like something happened to her.”
“There’s nothing staged about the dead woman inside my cooler,” I remind him.
“If it’s her.”
“It’s certainly looking like it so far. Did the cameras continue recording audio after they were covered?”
“Yes. But all you hear is the gates opening, and this creepy music, like someone was playing it inside the car really loud.”
“But you don’t hear the sound of an engine?” I double up on face masks, and a plastic shield goes over them, the visor flipped up for now. “Because that’s rather odd.”
“Well, the mics were covered, and maybe the engine’s a quiet one,” he says as I wonder what kind of car Gwen’s ex, Jinx Slater, drives. “Maybe the labs will pick up something when the recordings are enhanced.”
“The loud music you mentioned. Did you recognize it?” I ask.
Already I’m starting to sweat in my protective clothing as we stand on our sticky mats.
“I don’t think so, you hear it for only a few seconds,” August says. “But it sounded like something out of an old Boris Karloff movie. Then the same thing at six-oh-seven p.m., the exit gate opens, the spooky music playing loud. Four minutes after that, the crackly sound again when the cameras are uncovered. I’ll e-mail the clip and you’ll see what I mean.”
During the hour the cameras were covered, August says he didn’t hear anyone coming in or out of Colonial Landing. The gates weren’t opened or closed again, no other codes entered, and I’m not surprised. The weather was bad that night, and a lot of people were out of town. Others were staying home, not working the day after Thanksgiving.
“We don’t know if the person might have been on foot. Maybe his car was parked somewhere else,” August says as Gwen’s front door opens, wind gusting into the entryway. “And he walked through the gates playing the spooky music on his phone.”
“Possibly,” I reply as Fruge steps inside. “But he had to have a vehicle to transport the body out of here, and to the railroad tracks on Daingerfield Island.”
“I just got off the phone with the manager.” Fruge starts collecting PPE, getting ready to suit up. “The rent is seven grand monthly, and she paid three months up front.”
“She paid twenty-one thousand dollars?” August asks. “Holy smoke.”
“Cash, as in cold and hard. As in the owner of this place was happy to take it under the table and maybe not declare it on his income tax.” Fruge pulls on coveralls.
She tells August what she told me, that the townhome is off the market for renovation, and Gwen apparently didn’t mind what she paid or what shape the place was in as long as she could get in right away.
“She wanted to be back here behind a big wall with a gate,” Fruge adds. “And that would fit with her being afraid.”
“Certainly, it fits with someone who’s very private,” I reply, and I ask about the kettlebell. “Was it just like this when you first walked in?”
Without touching it, I look closely at the ten-pound weight near the door on an area of flooring not covered by mats. I don’t see any blood but I also wouldn’t expect it on whatever Gwen was struck with because she was hit only once. The blow was severe enough to punch out bone, causing subarachnoid hemorrhaging and traumatic brain injury.
Assuming the kettlebell was the weapon, then it likely wouldn’t have gotten bloody unless she was struck again after her scalp was bleeding. I notice there’s a shallow dent on the floor that may have been caused by the weight falling or being dropped, and I suspect Gwen was knocked unconscious as she attempted to escape out the front door.
When the crime scene unit is let loose in here, they’ll 3-D scan the scene, placing evidence flags, taking more photographs, packaging everything for the labs. But at this point, nothing should have been disturbed in any form or fashion. What I’m seeing should be exactly as it was left, and I question Fruge about it.
“Like I’ve been telling August, I haven’t touched anything except for digging inside her backpack on the kitchen table.”
She pulls on a pair of gloves, letting me know she’s done everything by the book.
“The matching kettlebell’s inside the sunporch off the living room, and you have to wonder why this one’s here,” she’s saying. “Unless maybe he was chasing her through the house, and whacked her good. Maybe as she was trying to get out the door?”
That’s a lot of maybes, and what I need is to be alone with my own thoughts and observations. I suggest to August that he find Marino. He should be sitting in his pickup truck waiting for my call. The two of them can confer, giving me a chance to make a high recon.
I want to observe and digest without prompting from anyone, and that won’t be easy with Fruge shadowing me. She watches in the doorway as I walk into the guest bedroom off the foyer directly to my left. There’s no furniture or overhead lighting, and I turn on my small flashlight, shining it around.
Picture hooks are still in the walls from artwork taken down. Wires dangle from the ceiling where light fixtures or fans once hung, and exposed jack wall plates and cable connectors are from missing phones and a television. I paint my light over the bare maple floor, the pale-yellow-painted walls.
The gold damask drapes are drawn, and I see nothing that might make me think a struggle went on. My booties make a slippery sound as I return to the sticky mats, making sure I don’t track anything from one room to the next. I head to the master suite on the other side of the entryway, making swishing sounds as I walk.
“I didn’t see anything in there, either,” Fruge informs me as she tags along. “The crime scene guys will do their thing once they’re let loose in here, and they’ll leave no stone unturned. But it appears to me the confrontation, the struggle went on between here and the sunporch. And then most importantly there’s the blood inside the garage.”
“I’ll save that for last,” I let her know as I walk into another dark bedroom.
There’s no overhead lighting in here either, just a lamp that’s not turned on. My flashlight finds more of the same bare flooring, pale-yellow-painted walls, exposed picture hooks and wall plates. The inflatable mattress Fruge mentioned could use some air, its sheets and two pillows slightly askew. I don’t see a blanket or cover anywhere.
A TV has been set up on a card table, and there’s a single folding chair with a warm-up suit draped over it, a pair of running shoes nearby. Opening the walk-in closet, I continue finding no sign that Gwen ever really moved into this place. It’s as if she fled from Boston with little more than the clothes on her back.
“Nothing’s making a lot of sense,” Fruge says as I direct my light at two pairs of running shoes still in their boxes and ankle-high boots neatly lined up on the floor. “Are we sure she was living here all the time? It sure doesn’t look like she planned to stay here long. Any possibility most of her stuff is somewhere else?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” I illuminate two jackets and four blouses on hangers.
The rest of Gwen’s belongings are in four plastic storage containers despite plenty of built-ins for her few pairs of running tights, her T-shirts, hoodies, socks and undergarments. What I’m seeing isn’t consistent with a short-term rental. It’s more in keeping with someone on the lam who wanted to hide while staying light on her feet.
Had she decided to beat a hasty retreat, she could have packed up in no time and been gone. Or it’s possible she wasn’t staying here much, was back and forth to some unknown location. Living a secret life, in other words, and that’s what I’m picking up about the missing biomedical engineer. She had something to hide.
Ducking into the bathroom next, I shine my light around. Confronted by my own reflection in the mirror over the sink, I take off my fogged-up face shield because wearing it isn’t manageable. I feel overheated and clammy, and the reflection staring back at me looks like holy hell, my blue eyes slightly bloodshot above my double masks.
I open the medicine cabinet, empty except for a box of tampons, and I shut the mirrored door. The granite countertop around the sink is clean, nothing on it but a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, facial soap, a hairbrush, a drinking glass. Some of it will be a good source of DNA. But the absence of other personal effects including cosmetics and jewelry is perplexing and disturbing.
“Something’s very wrong with this picture.” August’s voice sounds behind me.
It’s as if he’s reading my mind, standing outside the bathroom doorway with Fruge. He’s shining his light around, his eyes scanning behind clear plastic that’s fogging up.
“Where’s everything else?” he asks. “I’ve seen more crap than this in a flophouse hotel room that someone’s hired by the hour.”
“I agree it’s peculiar.” I hand him my face shield because I simply can’t wear it.
“I’m having the same problem,” he agrees, taking off his.
I open the shower door, the powerful beam of my tactical light flaring off the glass. Inside are shampoo, conditioner, a body cleanser, a razor, and that’s it.
Next, I check the cabinet under the sink, finding rolls of toilet paper and a toilet brush. The white towels on the racks look used, and I suggest those should go to the lab on the off chance a killer cleaned up in here, although I see no sign of it.
Sweat is running coolly down my back and chest as I investigate the wastepaper basket that doesn’t appear to have been emptied in a while. It’s filled with multiple empty toilet paper rolls and wadded tissues, and on top of them is some type of wrapper.
“Strange.” I shine my light on the cardboard backing and plastic. “From an ink pen.”
But not a normal one. The writing on the packaging is in English and Japanese, the pen actually a fabric marker that uses purple water-soluble ink.
“I don’t know if this is important but it might be,” I explain to August and Fruge. “Pens with water-soluble ink aren’t something your average person has unless they’re writing on a whiteboard or doing magic tricks.”
“Maybe it was something she uses at work,” he suggests.
“Like on a whiteboard in a lab,” Fruge adds.
“I rather much doubt it,” I reply. “Also, there’s no cover on the bed, and maybe there wasn’t one. But I would expect a blanket, a duvet or something, and we’ll want the linens checked for DNA in addition to fibers and other trace evidence.”
Chapter 7
Stepping out of the bathroom, I put on a new outer pair of gloves, stuffing the used ones in a pocket of my coveralls.
“If she were attacked, the assailant may have needed something to wrap her in after knocking her unconscious,” I suggest.
I remind August that I collected a lot of synthetic fibers from the murder victim in my cooler. The source is something her body was in contact with, something like a blanket.
“What about her clothing?” Fruge asks. “Whatever she was wearing when she was attacked, where is it? I’ve not seen anything in the house that makes me think it might be what she had on. Nothing on the floor, nothing torn or bloody.”
“If Gwen is the victim from Friday night, I have a feeling the killer stripped the body, did whatever else he was going to do once he got her out of here,” August weighs in.
“Got her out of here how?” I bring them around to the question of the killer’s mode of transportation.
“It was raining Friday night, and it appears to me that someone drove a vehicle in and out of the garage.” Fruge adds a new detail. “You can see the dried tire tracks, and that’s probably important since she doesn’t have a car.”
“Depends on how long the tire tracks have been there,” August replies. “For all we know it’s since before she moved in. As for the blood? We don’t know how long that’s been there, either.”
“What I’m thinking is, after he knocked her unconscious, he might have driven his car inside and shut the door,” Fruge continues, painting a scenario that may very well be what occurred. “Then he has time and privacy to get her body into the trunk or wherever he put it.”
“I’ll look at the garage last.” I don’t want to hear any further scripting or conjecturing. “It would be helpful if you could convince Dana Diletti to stop saying Gwen Hainey’s name over the air.” I direct this at August. “Or at least remind the public the identity hasn’t been verified.”
“She doesn’t care what we say or how much damage she does,” he replies as the front door opens again.
Marino appears swathed in white like an abominable snowman.
“What the hell?” he complains behind his fogged-up plastic face shield. “How am I supposed to see anything? Where are the defog wipes?”
“That we don’t have.” Fruge closes the door.
He takes off his disposable face shield, all of them deposited in the red biohazard trash bag, followed by our soiled gloves.
“That or baby shampoo like you use on dive masks,” he says. “You should always have it on hand.”
